


Might've Been the Meatloaf

by sahiya



Series: Febuwhump 2021 [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: (non graphic and off screen), FebuWhump2021, Food Poisoning, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, New York City, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Tony Stark, Sickfic, So is actually puking on the subway, Trying not to puke on the subway is a time honored tradition, Vomiting, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:13:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: Why did Peter have to get food poisoning this weekend of all weekends?Parker Luck, that was why.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Febuwhump 2021 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142057
Comments: 18
Kudos: 178
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Might've Been the Meatloaf

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd again. That might just be how I roll this month. 
> 
> This takes place in the same universe as [Spiegel im Spiegel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307661/chapters/69362127). If you don't want to read that one, you should know that a Tony from another universe dropped into the MCU just before the holidays, about fifteen months after the events of _Endgame_. That Tony never knew the Peter in his universe, and he and Peter are still getting to know each other in this one.
> 
> Also, this is my 300th work posted to AO3! *tosses confetti*

It could have been the cafeteria meatloaf. Or the hot dog Peter had eaten while he was out patrolling the night before. Or the fish tacos from the taco truck –– he’d eaten there a lot, and most of the food trucks in the city met very high standards, but it only had to be left out a little too long for it to go bad. It could have even been Delmar’s, though Peter was loath to believe that the best sandwich shop in Queens would have betrayed him like this. 

“Or you could’ve been poisoned,” Ned pointed out brightly from where he stood out by the sinks in the dingy boys’ bathroom. “Isn’t Scorpion always trying to inject you with things?”

“No Scorpion last night,” Peter groaned. He spat into the toilet bowl and slumped over, head resting on his arm. “Just a normal patrol. Besides, what would be the point of making me sick _the next day_?”

“To incapacitate you!” Ned said. “While he puts in motion a nefarious plan to terrorize the good citizens of New York City!”

“You’ve been reading too many comic books.” Peter decided he was probably done puking for now. He flushed the toilet and sat back on his heels. His stomach was cramping, his head aching. As much as he’d have almost liked to believe what Ned was saying for the sake of his own dignity, he was pretty sure he just had run-of-the-mill food poisoning. 

He got to his feet and shuffled out. He rinsed his mouth out with water from the tap, splashed some on his flushed face, and gratefully accepted the bottle of Sprite Ned had gotten him from the vending machine. He took a few cautious sips, leaning against the counter. 

“You’re going home, right?” Ned said. “I don’t have to talk you into skipping decathlon practice?”

“No, I’m going home,” Peter said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Well. Not home. I’m supposed to be staying with Tony this weekend. May and Happy are out of town for Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh,” Ned said. “Wow. That kind of sucks.”

It did kind of suck, Peter had to admit. It was the first time he’d planned on staying the whole weekend at Stark Mansion since Tony had landed in their universe right before the holidays. It had taken this long, even with the fastest construction money could buy, for the renovation of Tony’s apartment to be done. Peter had had a great weekend planned: helping Tony wire JARVIS into the new space, some Manhattan-based patrolling, hanging out with MJ in her neighborhood without having to schlep back to Queens afterward.

Maybe he’d wake up tomorrow feeling better, but at the moment, Peter had to admit that anything beyond lying on the sofa and rewatching _Queer Eye_ felt pretty unlikely. 

MJ was waiting for them, just outside the boys’ bathroom. “Wow, Parker, you look like roadkill.”

Peter smiled wanly. “Thanks, MJ.”

She frowned, briefly betraying her genuine concern, and pressed the backs of her fingers to Peter’s forehead. “You’re going home, right? I don’t have to kick your ass?”

“I’m going home,” Peter said, shouldering his backpack. “Send me whatever we cover in AcaDec practice today, I’ll get to it over the weekend. And, um –– I know we had plans ––”

“Let me know if you feel up to hanging out,” MJ said. “I can always come to Tony’s place, and I don’t care if all we do is watch movies. Now get out of here before you start puking again. Try not to be the sick passenger slowing down the subway.”

Peter grimaced. “Yeah, okay. I’ll text you guys. Thanks for the soda, Ned.”

“No problem, feel better!”

Ned and MJ headed off to decathlon practice, and Peter trudged off in the other direction. Midtown wasn’t far from Tony’s, and on a normal day he’d have walked or swung there. But he knew he wasn’t up for it, so instead he headed for the Q train, which would drop him within a couple blocks of Stark Mansion. 

The problem, he realized almost immediately, was that the subway was dank and smelly on a good day. The platform smelled like Chinese food, stale beer, and urine. In mid-February, it wasn’t humid and baking, at least, but it still wasn’t doing anything for Peter’s stomach. He took small sips from the bottle of Sprite to try and keep it as settled as possible, but it already felt like a losing battle. 

He was sitting slumped on a bench, waiting for the train, when his phone buzzed with a text from Tony. _Hey kid, I know you’ve got decathlon this afternoon. I thought we could do pizza for dinner. What do you want for snacks? I’m placing a grocery order._

Peter groaned. This was going to be so embarrassing. The last thing he wanted was for Tony to see him all snot-faced and puking. But there was no way to hide it, and even if there had been, he felt too awful to try. 

**Not feeling well. Skipping decathlon and coming to your place now.**

_Uh oh. What kind of not feeling well? Want me to come and get you?_

It was tempting, but Peter could already hear the train approaching, and it would take much longer for Tony to reach him by car. **Ginger ale and saltines kind. And no, train’s here. 10 minutes.**

The train was, fortunately, only about half full. Peter found a place to sit. He put his backpack on his lap and leaned forward, resting his forehead against it. The nausea had abated a bit but he could feel it creeping back. He only had a few stops to go, but he couldn’t help thinking about MJ’s admonishment not to end up as the proverbial “sick passenger” that slowed down an entire train line. 

He was feeling pretty shaky by the time the train reached his stop, but he thought he’d make it –– right up until he emerged from the stairwell and was overwhelmed by the smell of grilling meat from the Halal truck by the entrance to the park. 

He stumbled three steps and threw up in the gutter. 

“Ewwww,” a passing kid exclaimed, only to be shushed by their parent. Peter straightened up, panting. 

“Hey, kid!” the guy running the Halal truck said, leaning out. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled, unthinkingly wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. Yuck. “Just not feeling so hot.”

“No shit. You almost home?”

“Yeah. Just a couple blocks.”

“Okay. Hope you feel better.”

“Thanks,” Peter sighed. “Me too.”

It was the longest two blocks of his life, but finally, _finally_ , he was submitting to the retinal scan and letting himself into the foyer of Stark Mansion. 

It was so quiet once the door had swung shut behind him. He dropped his backpack and closed his eyes, lightheaded with relief. The stairs looked like an awful lot to climb just then. He sat down on the second to last step and rested his head against the banister. He’d get up in just a minute or two.

“Peter?” he heard Tony call, followed by the sound of him coming down the stairs. “What are you –– oh. Um. Hey. Wow. You look... not great.”

Peter covered his face with his hand. Why did he have to get sick _this_ weekend of all weekends? “I know. Look, if... if you don’t want me here, that’s fine. I can go home.”

Tony frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m seventeen. I can take care of myself.”

“Well, even if that’s true, I’m pretty sure your aunt would murder me for sending you home looking like death warmed over. Come on, let’s get you upstairs and into bed or on the couch or wherever you want to be.”

He hauled Peter to his feet and pulled his arm across his shoulders. “Wait, wait, dizzy,” Peter said, leaning into Tony despite himself. “Okay,” he finally said, and they started climbing. 

“I can’t believe you took the subway like this,” Tony grunted as they reached the second floor. 

“It was the fastest. I almost made it.”

“What does that mean, ‘almost made it’?”

“I puked in the street,” Peter said, kind of morosely. “By the food truck at the entrance to the park.”

“Well, at least you didn’t puke on the train. Not that you would’ve been the first.”

“Mmm.” He was starting to feel nauseous again, but the top of the stairs was in sight. Tony opened the door and ushered him inside. It was warm in the apartment, and Peter started taking off his layers. He felt sweaty and feverish underneath. 

“I’ve got ginger ale coming,” Tony said, taking his coat from him to hang up. “And crackers, and soup, and May said you liked Jell-O when I texted her ––”

The nausea spiked abruptly, flooding Peter’s mouth with saliva. Peter bolted for the bathroom. 

Tony, to Peter’s mortification, followed him. Peter would’ve shut the door in his face, but he was too busy throwing up and wishing the ground would swallow him. 

He finally stopped puking –– momentarily, anyway –– and flushed the toilet. He slumped over, resting his head on his arm, and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Tony hover awkwardly in the doorway. 

He heard the tap run, and Tony crouched down next to him with a quiet, “Hey.” Peter opened his eyes, and Tony offered him a damp cloth and a glass of water. 

Peter took the damp cloth first and used it to wipe his mouth. Then he accepted the glass of water. He rinsed his mouth and spat it out, then took a very small sip of water. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shifting back to lean against the wall across from the toilet. “This is humiliating.”

“It really shouldn’t be,” Tony said. He sat on the edge of the bathtub. “Would you like to hear some stories about all the inappropriate places I’ve vomited? Because when you have a history of alcoholism and drug abuse, you end up with some doozies.”

Peter smiled weakly. “Maybe not right now. You don’t have to stay, you know. Think I’m just gonna... hang out here for a bit.”

Tony eyed him for a few seconds, then finally nodded. “Okay,” he said, standing. “Let me know if you need me.”

Peter waited until Tony had left, closing the door behind him, before curling up in a ball in the corner where the wall met the bathtub. Tony had had the old tub ripped out and a nice new one installed. May had made incoherent noises of jealousy when she’d seen it, since the tub in their apartment was way too shallow to actually take a bath in. Peter was just glad that it was exactly the right height for him to rest his head against. 

Too late, he realized his phone was in his backpack in the hall, so he didn’t even have that to distract himself from how miserable he felt. He thought about calling out and asking Tony to bring it to him, but he didn’t really want to bring more attention to himself than was necessary. He already felt like he was putting Tony out by being here when he was so sick.

“Seriously,” Peter muttered, closing his eyes. “Parker luck. FML.”

***

This was not good. 

This was really, really not good. 

Tony had had grand plans for Peter and him this weekend, including lots of workshop time, a trip to the Natural History Museum (May had told him it was a childhood favorite of Peter’s), and trying bunch of restaurants that delivered to Tony’s place, because the kid was a bottomless pit and Tony had kind of turned into an Italian grandmother, only he didn’t actually cook. 

All of that was out the window now. Peter was absolutely miserable, and Tony was in way, way over his head. Only May Parker didn’t seem to see it that way. 

_Keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t get dehydrated. He likes green Jell-O. Just let him veg out and watch movies and try to keep him from stressing about schoolwork. If things take a turn, I can come home, but I think you’ve got this. I’ll call tonight to check in._

Tony honestly did not know where that kind of faith came from, because he was very certain that he, in no way, _had this._

So he did what he had always done when he was panicking. He called Rhodey. 

“Hey, so have I told you recently that you’re my favorite, and I mean my _very_ favorite, human?” Tony greeted him. 

Rhodey was silent. “What do you want?”

“I think I mentioned that Peter was staying the weekend.”

“A few times,” Rhodey said, with just a hint of irony. “So?”

“He’s sick. Like, locked in the bathroom, puking his guts out sick.”

“Oh,” Rhodey said. “Well, that sucks, Tones, but I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.”

“The same thing you always do, platypus –– come rescue me from my own ineptitude. I’m serious,” Tony added, when Rhodey laughed, “I have no idea what I’m doing. He kicked me out of the bathroom, and I let him. Was that the right thing to do? I don’t want anyone around if I’m puking, but he likes people way more than I do, so maybe I should have insisted on staying? He offered to go home, which I obviously didn’t agree to, but maybe he _wants_ to be at home. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing, except making sure he doesn’t get dehydrated.”

“That’s a good place to start,” Rhodey said. “You remember what it was like to be seventeen?”

“Vaguely,” Tony muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Well, _I_ remember what it was like to be seventeen, and I remember what it was like to live with you –– other you –– when you were seventeen, too, God help us both. My guess is that he’s embarrassed. He thinks he shouldn’t need help, and he doesn’t want you to see him as a kid, but he also wants some reassurance. And you’re right, he likes company, so even if he doesn’t want you around while he’s actively puking, he’ll probably want you around the rest of the time. Just try not to be weird.”

“Excuse you, I’m never weird.”

Rhodey snorted. “Tony, you can be _deeply_ weird. And you are at your weirdest when you feel inadequate and are trying to compensate, so whatever your initial impulse is, dial it down at least four notches.”

“Okay,” Tony said, begrudgingly. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to come bail me out?

“Nope, you got this.”

“That’s what May said, too. Not sure where either of you got that idea.”

Rhodey just laughed at him and hung up. 

“Traitor,” Tony said to his phone. 

“Sir, the grocery delivery has arrived,” JARVIS said through Tony’s StarkWatch. 

“Great, thanks, Jay,” Tony said, and took the stairs two at a time to retrieve the delivery from the first floor. It was something to do at least, besides staring at the bathroom door and second-guessing himself. 

He returned, groceries in hand, to find the bathroom door open and the door to the guest room shut. Tony started putting things away, one ear turned toward the bedroom in case Peter fell over or called out for him. 

He was just about done when Peter emerged. He was pale, almost green, and moving slowly, like all his muscles ached. He was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms with kittens all over them, and an oversized, threadbare Midtown Tech sweatshirt. “Hey,” he mumbled. 

Tony thrust a bottle of ginger ale at him. “Hey.”

Peter accepted it and shuffled over to the sofa to sit. He slumped back. 

“How’re you doing?” Tony asked, sitting down next to him.

Peter gave a weak snort of laughter. 

Tony grimaced. “Yeah, sorry. Dumb question.”

Peter opened his eyes and looked at Tony. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go home? I thought it was food poisoning, but I think I’ve got a fever, and I kind of feel like I’ve got the flu, so it might be a virus. You really don’t want to catch this.”

“I’m sure,” Tony said. He hesitated, then reached out and pressed the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead, like he remembered Jarvis doing for him when he’d been sick as a kid. To his surprise, Peter relaxed, eyes closing. 

Reassurance, Rhodey had said. Reassurance and affection, Tony guessed. May was a pretty touchy-feely parent. 

“You definitely feel warm.”

Peter hummed. Tony gave his hair a quick ruffle before withdrawing his hand.

“I heard you call Colonel Rhodes,” Peter said, eyes still closed. “You’re not inept or whatever it was you said to him. And I don’t need to be coddled, I’m not a little kid, but it’d be kind of nice to have some distraction from how totally crappy I feel.”

“I can do distraction,” Tony said. “I’m the king of distraction. What form are you looking for? Movies? TV? Video games? Science?”

“Movies or TV,” Peter said. “Something feel-good. Maybe _Queer Eye_?”

“Sure. Here, stretch out on the sofa. I’ll get you a blanket.”

Peter stretched out on the sofa, and Tony got him the quilt off the bed in the guest room. He curled up beneath it, head pillowed on one of the couch cushions, while Tony sat in the armchair with his tablet. “Episode preference?”

Peter shook his head, so Tony chose one at random and put it on.

Tony had watched TV with Peter before. He was usually an endless source of trivia and commentary, to the point where it kind of drove Tony crazy if he hadn’t seen the show already. Now, Peter was silent, huddled under his blanket, barely even grunting in response when Tony said something. 

About twenty minutes into the episode, Peter abruptly sat up, threw the blanket off of himself and bolted for the bathroom. 

Tony paused the episode. Peter was throwing up — mostly dry heaving from the sound of it. Tony winced in sympathy; puking was gross but dry heaving _hurt_. He hesitated, wondering if he should go in, but there wasn’t much he could do to help. Not to mention, Peter had drawn a pretty firm boundary. 

Finally, after what felt like forever, it went quiet. The toilet flushed, but Peter didn’t emerge. Tony let a minute go by before finally caving and going to knock on the door. “Pete?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He sounded like his throat was wrecked. “You can come in.”

Tony eased the door open. Peter was lying on the floor, head pillowed on his elbow. “Ah, kid,” Tony said, sympathetically. “Come on, that can’t be comfortable. Let’s get you back to the couch.”

“I’m gonna throw up again,” Peter mumbled. His eyes were red, his face wet with tears. 

“I’ll get you a garbage can,” Tony said. “Better than you lying on the floor.” He pulled Peter to his feet and together they staggered out of the bathroom. He helped Peter lie back down on the sofa and went to get the promised garbage can — the one from the bathroom, lined with a plastic bag. “It’s right here, okay?” he said to Peter, who had thrown his arm up and over his face. Peter nodded. 

Tony turned the episode of _Queer Eye_ back on and settled into his chair, one eye still on Peter. After a few seconds, Peter turned onto his side and retrieved his bottle of ginger ale from the floor. He took a few sips, wincing. 

“Better?” Tony asked. 

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled. And then, a few seconds later, “Thanks.”

“No problem, kid, and I really mean that. This isn’t a problem.”

Peter lifted his head enough to look at Tony, obviously trying to suss out whether Tony was telling the truth. Whatever he saw there must’ve convinced him, because he put his head back down and relaxed his shoulders, just a little. 

They fell quiet, both watching the show. It wasn’t really Tony’s thing, but he got the appeal, especially for a kid like Peter. It was nice to see nice people get nice things. A straight shot of good karma into the world. 

“Tony?” Peter said after a few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“Ned said — I don’t think this is true, but Ned suggested maybe I’d been poisoned, and, um, I kind of can’t stop thinking about it. Even though I don’t think it’s true.”

Tony hesitated. It seemed like a pretty run-of-the-mill bug to him, but he could understand why Peter might be feeling anxious. “Anyone get close enough to you recently to inject you with something? Or spray something on you?”

“No. S’ been kind of quiet.”

“Do you feel like you’re getting worse? Or are you, I don’t know, throwing up blood?” Jesus Christ, he hoped the kid would have said something if he was, but it was hard to say with Peter. 

“No. I feel better, probably because I’m not trying to get through the school day or take the subway.”

“Okay. Then I agree, I think it’s probably either a virus or food poisoning, and unless you get worse, the treatment for both is pretty much the same. But we could call Helen and see what she says.”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t want to bother her.”

“She won’t consider it a bother, you know that. You’re her favorite patient.”

Peter was silent for a few seconds, clearly mulling it over. “No, I’m okay. I just wanted... I don’t know.”

“Reassurance?” Tony supplied, thinking of Rhodes’s earlier advice. 

“Yeah.”

“Well, consider yourself reassured. But let me know if you do start feeling worse.”

Peter nodded and relaxed again, turning his attention back to the TV. 

Tony’s phone buzzed. **Well?** Rhodey had written. **How’s it going?**

Tony glanced at Peter. His eyes were at half-mast. Tony bet he’d be asleep in the next fifteen minutes if the nausea didn’t come back. _Better than expected. You and May were right, I got this._

**Excuse me, I gotta screen shot this conversation, blow it up, and hang it on my wall.**

Tony rolled his eyes. _You’re the worst. You’re my least favorite human._

**Lies. Say hi to the kid for me.**

_Will do._ Tony opened his mouth to do just that, but he stopped when he saw that Peter’s eyes were closed, his mouth slightly agape. One hand trailed off the sofa. 

Tony smiled to himself and settled back in his chair. He had this. 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> The events of this story are 100% based on something that happened to me the first six months I lived in NYC. Nothing is worse than trying not to throw up on the subway (at rush hour, no less).
> 
> Next up: Hiding an injury. It's Tony's turn to get whumped.


End file.
